


Did 87 Days Mean Nothing to You?

by bottomofnight



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Dark Thoughts, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, One Shot, POV Third Person, Recovery, Self-Harm, Short Story, Somewhat Graphic SH, mark just wants to help, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2020-11-02 11:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomofnight/pseuds/bottomofnight
Summary: Ethan was almost 3 months clean, but he went and fucked it all up. Mark's worried about him, but has no clue what''s going on.TRIGGER WARNING





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - Read the tags!
> 
> I might make a second chapter if that's something y'all are interested in. Anyway, I wrote this with the intention of adding my emotions at the time towards my relapse. School really fucks me up, what can I say? I am doing better now, so don't worry about me! This was written a week or so ago on my phone at midnight and I've finally had the motivation to go and edit it.  
Also, I hate how many dividers there is in this (2) and it looks so much better with just two spaces instead but idk if Ao3 will allow that :(

Ethan sat in his bathtub, water enveloping him. The orange-red colour was intoxicating as his own blood mixed with the once transparent water. Blood, blood, blood. His arms were covered, the culprit the deep gashes he had inflicted on himself. He didn’t mean to cut so deep, or maybe he did. The question of death didn’t mean anything to him. Either he receives the incredible relief he craves, or he dies. A win-win situation in his mind. 

His thoughts were nonexistent anymore, only endorphins running through his brain. God, had he missed that feeling. The sweet, sweet feeling that everything was going to be okay, even just for a moment. It’s what the cuts conveyed, and he was always glad to feel anything other than the stress and anxiety lurking throughout his body. 

The thing is, he had tried so goddamn hard. So fucking hard for it all to shatter to pieces of meaningless. Almost 3 months were under his belt of no self-harm whatsoever. The worst part was he was proud, too, because now he felt as guilty as ever. Now that the counter was back to zero, there was nothing to keep up anymore. He had nothing to lose other than merely hours. He wouldn’t suffer the guilt of losing 87 days again because he’ll simply never make it that far again. 

So, the cuts were wrapped poorly by weak hands and toilet paper. He didn’t care about infection. Besides, have you seen how expensive bandages are? He shook his head, curled up in fetal position against his bed. Nothing mattered anymore. He was back to where he was 3 months ago, constantly losing himself in physical pain. But what could he complain, because this was the best he’d felt in a long time. His panic attacks were almost daily and the stupid fucking coping mechanisms he was taught wasn’t achieving anything. The only thing that could help was tearing his skin open and leaving scars upon scars. 

During the time he was clean, he was so excited for all his scars to fade and finally be able to wear short sleeves. God, it felt like a dream at the time. Now, as his eyes raked over his makeshift bandages, those feelings shattered; he’d be like this forever. 

* * *

Aside from the ache and random intense pains coursing through his arms, he felt incredible the next day. He almost felt normal that morning, and when Mark texted him, he replied without a second thought. Of course he’d come over to film a video! 

However, by the time he made it to Mark’s, the feelings had faded and he was soon crashing lower than he had the night before. His eyes were dropping with exhaustion and his mind was clouded over; was he even alive? He couldn’t decide. 

“I thought we could do something with the muscle stimulators today,” Mark said, cheery and oblivious. Ethan merely nodded, unaware that he’d soon regret the decision he had made with zero thought. His mind was cluttered and empty all at the same time, and it made it impossible to think. 

When Mark handed one of the stimulators to Ethan, a searing pain ran up his arm. He froze, face contouring in pain, but hidden enough for it to be unrecognizable to Mark. He acknowledged his mistake; he’d have to place these on his arms. 

“Actually.” Ethan started, voice low and unsure. He wasn’t certain what he was about to comment. Maybe suggest another video? Maybe say he was sick and needed to go home? Mark was looking at him as confused as ever. “I think I’m gonna go.” 

That didn’t help Mark’s confusion, Ethan’s, either. Why did he pick that from his other options? Jesus, his brain was not functioning right. 

“Are you okay?” Mark asked him, tentatively placing the stimulators on the table and directing his utmost attention to Ethan. It was his first time thoroughly taking in the man before him. His brain finally kicked in and he realized that Ethan wasn’t himself. His facial movements were slower, and his speech was disoriented, not to mention the overwhelming look of nothingness in his eyes. His arms hung loosely at his side as though they weren’t connected to his shoulders, making him look broken and inhuman. 

Nonetheless, Ethan nodded, processing Mark’s words and smiling. “Yeah, of course! I’m great!” He didn’t dare to inquire why Mark thought that—he didn’t need to, he already knew. 

But Mark knew better. He cocked his head to the side, a wary look on his face. “Ethan.” He trailed off, unsure where the boundary line was. He wanted his friend to know he cared deeply about him, but he didn’t want to push too hard and leave Ethan feeling alone and wishing he had never come over in the first place, but unknown to Mark, Ethan was already thinking that. The same thought swimming over and over in his mind. Why did I come here? Why did I come here? He wanted nothing more than to leave, or even better, to go back in time and decline Mark’s invitation in the first place. Why did he come here? 

“Mark, seriously, I’m good.” 

“You can talk to me, I’m not going to judge you.” Ethan knew that, but he couldn’t even bear the thought of pushing his feelings onto someone else. He couldn’t do that to his friend; he wouldn't. 

“I’m gonna go, okay? I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Yeah?” He paused for Mark to reply with a nod before grabbing his phone and slipping on his shoes and leaving. 

* * *

Back in the safety of his home later that night, he tore off his bandages, letting the sting overtake him and the blood run. He merely sat there in his bed for a while, silver laying beside him alongside a wad of toilet paper. Soon enough, it was a repeat of last night, expect without the crimson water rushing around him and only the cold air filling his bedroom. 

He was consequently consumed in his own mind that when a knock sounded at the door he visibly jumped, his body immediately panicking. But there was no need to panic, he could simply stay silent and pretend he wasn’t home. He wasn’t really there anyway. 

But the knocks sounded again, along with a call of his own name. As one would expect,, it was Mark. Fucking stubborn asshole, he had said he’d talk to him tomorrow. Was that not enough? 

“Ethan, please let me in.” No. No. No. 

Ethan got up, walking to his front door and listening to the comforting sound of the blood dripping behind him. Mark had undoubtedly heard him approach the door and his voice softened, “I just want to talk, okay? You weren’t seeming too good today and I just want to make sure you’re alright.” 

Mark had genuine intentions, but like hell Ethan was going to let him in. How could he? Blood scattered the floor and littered his arms. He couldn’t hide anything, now. So he sat against the door, patiently waiting for Mark to leave. Every word Mark spoke sending a pang deep into his stomach and twisting his intestines. They had been there for so long. Mark wasn’t even saying anything anymore, he just stood on the other side of the door, somehow comforting the man inside who had since fallen asleep on the hardwood floor with a puddle of red beneath him. 

“I just need to know if you’re okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, quick note! I am so so sorry. So much has happened since I said I would update this. As an apology, I wrote the angstiest possible continuation of this storyline that I could think of. If you just wanna read this part, skip the next paragraph.
> 
> *Skip* “So much has happened…” What an understatement. I found out I have dissociative identity disorder (formerly known as multiple personality disorder). It’s been a wild ride, and while I personally (as my own separate part of the consciousness), don’t experience severe depression, suicidal thoughts, or thoughts of harming myself, I do have quite a complex understanding. It’s technically a personal experience, but also not at the same time. I’ll say that some people very close (as in, in the same brain) have experienced it. They were the ones who wrote the first chapter of this. Anyway, I want to continue this so fucking bad! Ah! Alright, get to it!
> 
> Chapter written by Eli  
ps. it is a bit short but I promise to write more soon (for real this time!) and I really needed to get this up, it’s almost been a year. Forgive me, loves <3

Mark sat outside Ethan’s apartment with his head in his hands. He’d been there so long just waiting, hoping Ethan would be comfortable enough to share this part of him. He knew Ethan dealt with some shit, sure, but he had no clue how deep it could actually go. 

Longer he waited. A person walked down the hallway and gave him an odd glance. He’d started trying to make out patterns in the cream-coloured carpet beneath him. It hurt his ass quite a bit, but it’s not like there were any other seating around. 

10:23pm. He threw his phone beside him with a huff and leaned back against the door. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, digging his palms into the carpet. His hand instinctively pulled back when it felt warmth and something wet. Moving, he got a clear look. There was a small space under the door and as soon as he saw the culprit, he knew exactly what it was. Blood. Seeping under the door and into the carpet, dyeing it a dark red. 

He was startled and terrified and had probably never stood up faster in his life. He pounded on the door, praying to anyone out there that would listen and just hoping that Ethan was okay and alive. He needed to be alive. It couldn’t be like how it was before. No. Ethan can’t fucking die. He cannot lose another one of his friends. 

His fist was about to break through the wood before he heard something shuffle on the other side. He immediately stopped, squatting low, “Ethan! Ethan! Tell me you’re alright. There’s blood. Please, Ethan.” No response. “Answer me!” He slammed his palm hard against the door, creating a loud noise and a sharp pain in his hand. 

A door opened and creaked somewhere down the hallway. He swallowed, turning to see the onlooker, “I’m so sorry, my friend might be in trouble, I don’t know what to do.” he rambled. The lady understood, closing the door behind her and approaching cautiously. 

Mark refocused on Ethan. “Eth, please. Ethan. Please, Jesus Christ,” his head hung, tears falling from his eyes. 

The lady shuffled beside him, “I’m going to go get the manager. He has a key to open everyone’s door.” Mark gave her a weak but such a grateful smile. He sat on the floor again, his mind catching up. Grabbing his phone, he dialed 911. 

* * *

At the end of the hallway, the elevator doors opened and the previous lady and what he assumed was the manager hurried toward him. He scrambled to stand up, accidentally cutting off the call with the operator who told him not to hang up. He was too preoccupied and tried desperately hard not to focus on the red spot on the carpet. He couldn’t imagine how much blood there was inside. 

The manager fumbled with the key, eventually unlocking the door. Mark grabbed the handle and opened it enough to fit his head through. He almost lost it when he saw the state Ethan was in and what he had done to himself. Judging the distance between the door opening and his body, Mark slipped through into Ethan’s apartment. So much blood. So many cuts. It didn’t look like he was still actively bleeding, but it was definitely a sight that Mark would never be able to forget. 

He knew he couldn’t let his emotions get the most of him at a time like this; logical thinking only. He knelt down beside Ethan, touching his neck for a pulse. Relief filled him when he felt a steady beat. He grabbed his shoulders, gently sliding him away from the door. 

He hovered over him, “Ethan. Ethan. Can you wake up for me? he sighed, “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were hurting this bad. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“Sir, can you move out of the way, please?” Mark jumped, startled at the voice and hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see two paramedics and quickly nodded, moving himself away. Everything was a blur. He watched with his back against the couch, sitting on the floor once again. Completely out of breath and completely exhausted, but also terribly worried. The paramedics moved around Ethan efficiently and precisely. He knew he was in good hands, but that didn’t stop him from feeling absolute dread from the entire situation. This is something he’d always remember, for the rest of his life.


End file.
